


Eyes

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 01:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: Jesse is usually so chattersome... This succintness was not like him. Nor was he one to lie. Jesse comes home from a cover operation a very different man than Hanzo is used to. The cold, black eyes of a killer are ones he recognises, and it scares him.





	Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Foreshadowing: This was written by someone with bipolar disorder. Take that into account.

I'm half-awake when I hear it. I can never truly sleep when he's not here. Not anymore. It is a blessing and a curse. He was due back home today, and I spent most of today (and yesterday) cooking and preparing a feast for my hero. Whatever he was doing was so covert he could not even tell me, and neither would anyone else. I only knew he was back today, and that I missed him terribly, because he'd been on mandatory radio silence for days.

At about 3p the day he was originally supposed to be home, I finally got a text. It read, _Got a bit of a mix up with our flights. I won't be back til Tuesday. I'll be home really late. I mean REALLY late. Please don't wait up for me_.

There was no, 'Hey, Han, baby! See you soon!' No 'I'm so sorry, Han, but...' or, 'Hey, sorry, got a bit of a mix up...' or 'I miss you so much, I hate to do this to you darlin'.

Just... Excuse. I'll be home late. No, really. Don't wait up.

If I were a jealous man, I would assume he was cheating on me. Even the 'mix up with our flights' thing made no sense, because we usually flew our own private planes. Even a mix up with hangars could usually be fixed rather quickly. And he was usually so chattersome, such succint messages were out of character for him. It was not like him to lie. It could mean he was distracted, or worried about something, or a few things. But when I texted him back, I got nothing.

I cooked anyway. It helped to distract me from him not coming home for dinner. I would just make him dinner the next night. I even put out a note that there were some sushi rolls in the fridge for him to eat when he got home, whenever that was. I stayed up until 130 watching tv, but I did not want to waste my night watching tv for the sake of watching tv. If he truly was not home right now, there was no telling when he would.

He'd never done this before. It was possible he would not be coming home at all.

So when I heard the thump, I half-heard it. I listened, part of me wondering what was making the noise, and then I heard the key in the lock, and now I was awake... Albeit slowly. I checked the clock, and it was just shy of 4a. I blinked at it, not trusting it, but I turned in bed, listening.

The apartment door shut. The jangle of his boots touching the tile. ...The opening of the fridge, and what sounded like him grabbing the sushi and setting it on the counter. I smiled, resting my head on the pillow, and my hand touched the place where he would join me. And then I heard the whine of the cupboards, and the clinking of glass.

...That was not a good sign.

I sat up, listening. He pulled out a pair of chopsticks from a drawer, taking care to be quiet. The squeak of the plastic bento I'd put the sushi in, the click of the sticks, and the clinking of glass. He lowered himself onto the couch with a soft grunt. I waited for the television. Instead I heard the bottle, glass touching glass and a drink being poured.

He growled softly at the shot, and poured another, sighing.

Oh, this was very not good.

I turned in the bed, biting my lip, fingers playing with each other. I listened to him open the bento, and cough a little, and the sticks gently scraping the box. One of the nice things about living with a man who smoked was that you always knew where he was - just wait, and listen, and he would cough, and you could come find him. Smoker's cough, they called it. It ought to be a health concern, but I found it rather endearing.

He finished the sushi, and closed the box. He poured himself another drink, and downed with a grown. He tapped his fingers on the glass idly. Then there was the twiste of the couch and his denim, and the click of a lighter. The much-missed smell of tobacco smoke wafted my way, and my eyes rolled in the back of my head as I welcomed it. I quietly moved, considering going out to surprise him. I was silent, finding my little slippers and wrapping myself in a soft bathrobe, and I stepped to the open doorway of bedroom and--

I froze in my tracks at a very unfamiliar sound. It was high-pitched like a whine, choked, like something painfully squeezed out.

"I can't believe I..."

And then it was recognisable. A low, rumbling sound. But it wasn't joyous laughter. It was heart-wrenching. I tried to move the door quiet as I could, and looked out.

My love was crying.

"Fuckin'..." He shook his head, the heels of his hands in his eyes. "Fuckin' useless..."

I watched him sniff and sit up straighter, just to put the cigar back in his mouth and puff on it before pulling it out again and replacing it with the bottle. I watched him drink heavily, and I immediately regretted restocking the liquor cabinet in his absence. He finally pulled it away with a heaving, heavy, sickening cough. It took him a moment to recover from it, pounding on his chest with a fist as he tried to hack whatever it was up, and I took the opportunity to ghost out of the room.

" _Damn_." Another cough, lesser now. He groaned, and leaned back into the couch. I had slipped past him and into the kitchen, and I watched him from the dark. He looked up, at nothing in particular.

He sighed. "Jesse, you fuckin' fool... It's never worth it." He looked down again, slowly, and sniffed. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. The other raised the bottle to his lips again, and he groaned. My jaw tight, I ghosted through the kitchen, waiting for coughs and groans to disguise my noises. When he pulled the bottle up for another swig, I stepped behind him, and waited for him to swallow before I presented a glass of water beside his head.

He flinched, but it was delayed. He stared at the glass in wonder for a moment, before he saw the hand attached to it, and followed that up to look at me with the heart-breaking guilt of a dog who has pissed on the carpet. I am sure I was scowling, which would not help.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat and moved the cigar to his left hand so he could take the glass. _Good_ , I thought. Cigar in one, water in the other. No more whiskey. "Sorry. Did I wake ya?"

He did not look at me. But he obediently sipped the water.

I moved around the couch and sat beside him, arms crossed. Not close enough to be touching, so that he understood I was angry with him. "I was not truly asleep."

His faux joy dropped. He sighed, resting the glass on his knee. "Yeah. Can't do that right, either."

"Now that you are home, can you tell me why you are three days late?"

"I got another job."

"'Got another job'", I say, using fingers for quotations. "Whatever that means."

"It means just what I said it did, I got another job." For the first time in a long time, he bit back with anger. He turned to me. his mouth a scowl, his eyes red and dark, drunk, but not merry.

It made me nervous. I had not ever seem him this way before. I shrugged. "Okay. So. What did you do?"

"Please don't ask me that." He looked away from me again, and puffed on his cigar.

My jaw dropped. "What? You go away, I worry sick, you come home finally, tell me, 'oh sorry, three more days'. _Without_  a sorry, by the way. And some bullshit line about planes--"

"I SAID DON' ASK ME."

He leaned towards me, and I had the thought of a beast, of a snake, reared up and ready to strike. I could not help but note the hand with the glass was very close to where his guns would be, had he not taken them off when he got in, hung up beneath his hat. Even the fingers that held the cigar were pointed like guns, and I did not like it.

 _He scared me_.

I do not scare easy! I do not scare well. You scare me, I just get mad. I stood, and grabbed his bottle of whiskey, and marched to the kitchen.

"Hey, you get back here!"

I spun and snarled, pointing a finger at _him_. "I am not some girl in a movie that you can boss around!"

I turned back to the kitchen and had half a mind to pour the damned bottle down the drain, but I started by setting it by the sink.

"Fuck you!" he called back. He slammed the glass on the table enough to make it rattle, and I am sure if he'd been holding it with his left hand he would have broken it. I heard him rise, and my heart began to pound, and I stayed in the kitchen, watching him in the reflection of the kettle, and god, the rage in his eyes... If he came towards me, I did not know what I would do. He came around the couch, and he tossed the cigar aside, his steps not perfect, but not slurred enough by drunk to keep him still.

 _And he was coming towards me_.

I spun around, my chest heaving. "You do not come home and drink like this!" I told him, pointing a finger at him. "I cook for you for days so you come home to some thing _nice_ \--"

"Didn' no one ask you to do that!" he answered.

I realised he was half a step from his guns, and if he wanted them, he could kill me in a moment's breath. I'd seen him do it a million times. My hands searched behind me for something I could throw at him if I needed to. The bottle was an option, and with its contents, it could be heavy, but I sought something else.

"And by the way, this is _my_  house, and iffen I feel like comin' home in the wee hours ta have a private drink, that's entirely of my own will!" He swayed, and adjusted his footing. I couldn't breathe. "Yer a guest, yanno! You don't have to be here at all."

There was a cruel satisfaction to his words, and I didn't like the way his lips twisted in a sadistic smile. He looked like the devil himself, his hands like greedy claws, and I could see the guns right next to him.

I found the giant blade I'd been using to chop celery, and I grabbed it, putting it between us. My hand shook. Not a lot, but a tremor. Enough that I noticed, and it scared me. "Jesse, please don't do this to me," I begged him, my voice a quivering whisper.

He swayed, and his head turned sideways. "Now why you gotta go and do a thing like that?"

My eyes looked to his guns, and back to him. "Jesse, please..." I gave a desperate prayer in Japanese, begging his mercy. "Please, you're scaring me."

And then... he took a step forward, his eyes black with rage. " _GOOD_."

He turned on his heel, uneven as it was. He looked to the guns, and batted at them like a cat playing with string. He turned again, sniggering at me over his shoulder. "Scared of me, are ya?"

My back hit the wall, and I realised I'd been backing away from him, feeling utterly exposed in slippery slippers and a bathrobe. I had a kitchen knife, a short range weapon at best, and I was at odds with an angry, drunk sharpshooter who could reach out and touch my death if he had the mad notion to. "Please..."

"Please!" He mocked me, hands up. "I'm so scared!" He went for the step down to the living room and almost lost his balance. He laughed, the same cruel laugh as before, and caught himself on the couch. "I can't even walk straight, he thinks I'm gonna shoot 'im. Bet you I could, too." He made a finger gun at the tv and made a mock shooting sound. Another of explosion, arms going wide. He imitated an audience roaring. "Yeah, McCree! Kill 'em all! It's all you're good for..."

I watched him stumble again, and he caught himself on the wall. "Man can't even drown his sorrows in the privacy of his own home."

I rushed forward, and grabbed his guns off the wall, and slid them down the kitchen, where he couldn't reach them.

I watched him stumble down the hall to the bedroom, and remembered the bottle of tequila he kept there for hangovers.

"McCree-san, you've had enough to drink, you stop right there!" I warned him, moving closer, the blade before me.

He turned to me, eyes still black. "I'm in mah own damn house. Ye don' like me drunk, _get out_." He gestured to the door, and then turned back to the bedroom, and pushed open the door with a whine. I rushed forward and grabbed his shirt when he was mid-step, and he crashed to the ground with a curse.

"I mean it, McCree-san!" I warned him. I quickly moved over him and into the room. I heard him groan to sit up as I opened the cupboard to find the bottle of tequila, and I guarded it behind my knife. "No more drinking!"

He regarded me with an incredulous expression. "What, is this an intervention?" And then he snorted, and he giggled. "You crazy Jap. As if alcohol is my fuckin' problem. It's my fuckin' solution!" He then leaned back, head on the floor, and I watched him in horror, this strange creature I'd never seen before. He crossed his fingers over his belly and sighed. "Welp. Was only a matter of time before this happened."

"I am crossing. Do not fight me, or I will cut you," I warned him.

He did not fight me, but he did teasingly reach out to my ankle, and if he were not so drunk, he could have caught me. Unless he was taunting me, saying he was not as drunk as I thought. I prayed that were not the case.

He whistled appreciatively. "You were waitin' for me to come home, weren'cha?" He clicked his tongue. "Yeah..."

"I do not know if I want you home anymore," I replied, and I put the tequila next to his whiskey, and the temptation to dump it and all of the contents of the liquor cabinet down with it was a terrible temptation. But I knew it would do no good - he had money and means to get his own alcohol anywhere he wanted, and it would be a fruitless gesture. Not to mention that was a lot of booze to dump with him watching.

"Well, princess," he drawled. "Welcome to yer fuckin' life."

I scowled at him. "This is not you."

"No... This is me." He tilted his head to smile at me, that cruel, devilish smile. Sometimes his mischief made me warm with want. Right now it made me cold with fear. "Allll me. Unbridled me. Deadeye Jesse McCree. The _real_  story. The freak with one arm and no heart. Slayer of children and stealer of lost souls..." He giggled, and it made me shiver. I looked to the whiskey, and considered treating myself to some.

"This is not the man I love," I insisted, and my voice shook. Who was this demon?

"Actually, it is." He pointed at the ceiling with a finger. "This is the me I _hide_  from you. Most people don't stick around long enough to meet him. And they're usually the better for it." And then his face went hard. "Most anyone else don't last very long after they meet him. Odds are one out of three that any time I go out of the country, I'm paid to kill somebody. Find 'em, shoot 'em, put everyone else out of their misery." He shook his head. "Fucks with a man's head after a while. You can't have a heart that keeps breakin' all the time. It stops workin'." He stared at nothing, his face one of someone lost. I wasn't sure if he was tricking me... What this was really about. There was a panicked part of me that checked to make sure his guns were still where I'd put them, and he was still laying there, half in our bedroom, half in the hall. My chest was still heaving. I looked down at the knife and set it down.

"I do not like this man," I said finally. "He is cruel. And terrifying."

McCree nodded. "That he is."

It was almost haunting, the way his head turned to look at me. His eyes were hollow, dead, unfeeling. I knew those eyes. They were a killer's eyes. I'd seen them so many times...

Sometimes I saw them in the mirror.

They chilled me. They scared me. Not my Jesse. Not my warm kisses, big armed, always hugging you, kiss on the head as he walked by Jesse. My Jesse was full of love, and warmth. This man was cold and cruel.

I swallowed hard. "I want my Jesse back." I sniffed, feeling the tear slip down my cheek.

"I want my drink back." He looked back up at the ceiling and crossed his hands again. "I need my drink. I told you before, I am used to being hungover. There's a damned good reason for it."

I grabbed his damned bottle and stepped forward with it, my face twisted with anger. "Why is this bottle better than me?"

He looked at me, and then away, and his jaw worked. He struggled with it a moment, and the next line came out through clenched teeth. "Cos a bottle don't threaten me with a knife and get _scared_  when I get like this."

My chest heaved. I turned and threw the bottle. I wanted it to crash against the door, to cover everything in glass and whiskey, so it would feel as damaged and broken as I did. But it just bounced, and the damned bastard guffawed at me.

"Honey, whiskey bottles are designed to handle more than that! They're a drunkard's device of choice, yanno." He started to move, and I backed away, feeling foolish and impotent, and I hated it. I wished I still had my blade, as he sat up with a noisy groan.

"Welp! This has been fun." He tried to pull himself up by the doorway. I watched him struggle, and my instinct was to step forward and help him, but I couldn't bring myself to get closer. When he was finally standing, he seemed to toss himself against the wall. "Whoop! New wall." He pressed himself against it and gave out another giggle.

I shook my head at him. "This is not going to work."

"Like I said. _Bound_  to happen." He moved toward me, swaying. He shrugged, arms flying out on either side. "But hey! You made it four months." Finger guns again. "That's impressive. The fact that you're with Overwatch means yer a little more understanding about the disappearances. And for the first month and a half when people _usually_  give up, you saw me at work and not just the laughable amounts of free time I have. So to be fair, you had an un-decent advantage." He manages to sway and stagger to the couch before he lowers himself with a groan

" _Indecent_."

"Hmm?"

" _Indecent_. Or perhaps... You mean 'unfair'."

Another click of his tongue and a finger gun. "Unfair. There ya go. Can I have my drink now?"

I work my jaw and move forward. I have a thought to go to the bedroom and lock myself in, and let him have his drink. But I know if I do that, I will be afraid of him forever. I am not like the girls in the movies. I am not ignorant of his situation. It does not stop me being afraid, but... Well. I do have an 'unfair advantage'.

I remember being grateful once that he is not an angry drunk. That he is a happy drunk. And I realize he is... always a bit drunk. Maybe it is the sober man who is angry.

"When was the last time you had a drink?"

He chuckles. "A minute ago, before ya stole it," he answers, as if I was dumb to forget, and he thumbs over his shoulder at the kitchen.

"I mean... before you came home."

"Pfft, I don't know..." He looks at the wall, counting, and then back at me. "Four days?"

"Four days." The day before he texted me to say he was not coming home. "You did not drink on this other job?"

He sucks his lip, the anger growing in his jaw, and his brows clench as his eyes go dark. "I done told you. I don't want to talk about it."

"No. You want to drink to forget. I understand that part. So maybe, what you really need, is to talk about it. As you say, I have 'unfair advantage'." I use finger quotes, and gesture to him. "Look at you! You are a mess. You lie on the floor like a madman. You speak in riddles. You delight in tormenting me, whom you say you love. Explain this crazy to me."

He worked his jaw and looked to me. Those cold, black, killer's eyes. "You really want to know?"

"Yes," I answer. "Not because I do not already have a _very_  good idea... But because _you_  clearly need to." I carefully move closer, and his eyes track me without blinking. "Remember. I know you. I see you work. I see you shoot. Guns are not things for building castles. But you can _talk to me_."

He considers it, chewing on his cheek. "Fine. But you bring that damned whiskey over here."

I consider it, too, and I look over at the bottle. _My Jesse is a happy drunk. This is not my happy Jesse. He is in pain, and he is lashing out, like a wounded tiger._  I move to it and collect it. I move around the couch, and he reaches for it, but I do not give it to him. I stand opposite him from the coffee table, and I reach for his glass. I pour him a drink, and then I close the bottle again. I serve it to him, and if it is sharp on the table, I am not sorry.

"Much obliged." His voice is a low purr. He takes it and downs it, groaning, and lets out a predatory growl as it burns. He exhales as he relaxes into the couch, head back. He swallows, his eyes shut, and his legs meander. His right hand turns the glass, while his left taps impatiently on the arm rest.

I tuck the bottle beside the couch, where he cannot reach. I straighten my robe and put my hands in my lap, a safe distance away from him, and I wait.

It is still for a moment. But for the leg turning back and forth and the tapping, he looks almost peaceful. That is the throat that I love to kiss and bite, and hold, the scruff that I pick crumbs from, the whiskers that tickle my neck when he kisses me, the lips that wander over my skin and around me, the curve of the nose that makes the sillhouette I wish I could paint portraits of. Soft lashes and chestnut hair that I could stare at for hours...

It makes my heart ache, because I want that man back.

Eventually, he clears his throat. "Fine." It's a whisper. "I was doing wetwork." His head rolls forward, those eyes still black and cold. "Makes it sound like I'm doing the fucking laundry."

"Who?" I ask, wanting to keep him on track.

His eye looks at me sideways. "Who'd I work for, or who'd I kill?"

I shrug. "Whichever."

He growls, leaning forward, and puts the glass on the table. His eyelids slowly blink as the drink sinks in. "Freedom fighter troup in France."

"As the target?" I ask, surprised.

He turns to me, with that devil's smile. "No. They were the ones paying the tab. The mark was some allegedly Al'Quade operatives out in the country. It could be a Sunday Qu'ran school and they're all terrorists." He looks away from me, and he bites his lip. "I'm asked to kill a lot of browns these days. And Koreans. Africans. Tyrants, activists -- I try to only kill the ones that are gonna kill other people, but... That's not always an easy call to make."

I nod slowly. "...It is easy to just pretend that they are not real people. Just targets in a game."

"Like hell it is!" He turns on me, scowling. "It's hard as hell! I'm supposed to go out there and shoot people, come back, show up for work, train, train some more, teach _little ones_  how to shoot people, train _them_  some more, oh, and then I'm supposed to come back to a little wife waitin' at home with a nice warm meal to make me forget about... 'bout how many souls are going to be painted in red on my hands when I get to the Pearly Gates." He looks down at his hands, which spread open. He lets out a shuddering sigh. "Ain't no way in hell they're gon' let me in." And then he breaks, his voice breaks, he lets in a reedy inhale and it comes out in a sob. Those hands go to his eyes and he lets out the soul-crushing sound I heard earlier.

I curse softly. "Jesse..." I hesitantly put out a hand, and... touch it to his shoulder. He tenses, but he doesn't stop me. I sigh, and move closer, wrapping an arm around him, and carefully put my head to his shoulder.

"And then I come home and bring this shit to you," he said, a broken, wavering voice. "I wanna give us a good life, and that means doin' the work, but it rips me up inside, and I hate bein' a burden--"

"Oh, you stop that!" I chide. "You are no burden! I have been there, I know! It is why we work so well. Because we understand each other." I hug him fiercely, and he lowers his hands to look at me, and his cheeks are stained with tears. And I grab his arms and open them so that I can hug him properly, and he hugs me back, and he squeezes me like he is going to drown if he lets go.

"I'm so sorry..." he cries. "I didn't want you to see me like this..."

"Jesse McCree!" I chide. "This is us! We are one! For good and bad. For burnt cookies and bad eggs!" He laughs, despite everything. "For tripped over shoes and empty tea cups! Love is not taking. It is _giving_. I am here for you. And you are here for me. That. Is love."

I pull back from him and hold him at an arm's length, and he is searching my eyes, his hands loose at my elbows. "But you do not scare me like that again! I will shoot you!"

He guffaws one note, and catches himself, knowing it is not supposed to be a joke, and bites it down, but his eyes dance with mirth and his shoulders quake.

"You do not laugh at me, cowboy. And you do not come home at 4a and drown your sorrows alone anymore." I wave a finger in his face. "This is not _your_  home. This is _our_  home. As you said, you want me to be comfortable here. And to feel safe. That is your job as well! You can not be like this. You drink when you feel like this, I will drink with you." I nod, clapping that hand to his chin, and he gives me a quivering smile. "Remember! I am not just your 'little wife'. I am assassin as well. I know the darkness in your soul, because I see it in my eyes also." I tap a finger to my eye. "It is my 'unfair advantage'. And it is why we have made it as far as we have. Others have left you. They see the ugliness in you, and they run away. I do not. It is dishonorable to run away. They dishonor you. I will not dishonor you. But if you scare me, I will shoot you!"

He can not do it. He breaks contact with me, and starts laughing. He buries his head in his hands again, and although the sounds are similar, they feel very different in the soul. I even smile a little, tremulous as it is. When he peeks his eyes up at me, they are not cold and empty anymore. They are warm and loving, like a cup of hot chocolate on a Christmas morning.

"Hanzo... What the fuck would I do without you?"

"Drink, clearly," I answer. And he laughs again. "I am serious about the shooting, you know--"

"I have no doubt you are," he says, beaming. "For fuck's sake, get me another drink." He starts to rise, and wobbles on his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to _piss_." He staggers, and I rise to grab an arm. "...Thank you."

"If you need me to lend a hand, I will."

He snorts. "I'm not _that_  drunk..." He looks at me sideways, and wraps an arm around me. "Jesus, I scared you good, didn't I?"

I look away from his eyes, as if I am afraid they will turn back on me. "It needs to not happen again. Next time you come home, I will be waiting. And if you need to drink and talk, we will drink and talk. You must not bottle this up, Jesse. You must forgive yourself, or that guy upstairs will have nothing good to say to you."

He laughed again, and I stood behind him as he did his business, hands going up and down his back, trying to calm him, as much as myself. I kissed the back of his neck, nuzzling into his hair. He smelled like my Jesse, and I wanted him so bad.

"I miss you too much for you to come home like this."

He flushes, and turns to give me a kiss over his shoulder. It is gentle, and says more than I can say. He works his jaw, and his eyes are wet again. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to come home like this either."

When we kiss again, it is a homecoming one, and we relish being in the same space again. I smile, knowing his hand is still held out to the side to be washed, as I tug on his sleeve and swoop up to bite his neck.

"Gah--! MMPH. Fuck!"

I give a little growl and tug his ear. "Would you not rather a return like that? Hmm?"

And then I duck away as he goes to return the favour, his teeth snarling again, and his eyes black, but hot with lust.  
"Yer gonna get it," he warns me, and I skip down the hall as I hear the water go on.

As soon as I am alone, I let out a deep breath. My Jesse is back. The monster is gone. My hands are still quivering a little bit, but I fetch his guns and hang them back up where they belong. I also pull out a meal for each of us and set it to warm up in the microwave. When he comes into the hall, he's watching me with the eyes that tell me how much they love me, and I give him a shy smile.

Those eyes are my favourite in the world. Losing them, even for that short period of time, hurts me more than I can say.

I move forward, offering him the tequila. "Okay, cowboy. Put your worm back."

"Ah, gee. For me? Ya shouldn't have," he teases. But he takes the bottle and puts it back. I pour us cold drinks that do not have alcohol in them and set the table. When I spot him out of the side of my eye coming out of the bedroom, he's shed his outfit for a pair of soft pajama pants and no shirt. I have to stop and sigh in admiration, and he chuckles.

"Sit. We will eat. That was exhausting for both of us, I am sure."

"Yes, sir," he answers, a one-finger salute to his brow. I serve the appetizer first, spring rolls and thai chile sauce. He digs in while I fetch his sushi box and give him his chopsticks. He snatches me by the hip, and quickly swallows his bite to turn his head up for a kiss. I hesitate, but I muscle through it, and take the kiss. "Thanks, Han." He squeezes my butt, and I make a disapproving sound, and he chuckles. One plate is finished, and I bring it out to him.

"It looks amazing, baby," he says, trying to be gentle.

"Arigatou," I say. I put mine in to cook.

I slip in to the bedroom. For once, he has put his clothes in the basket (mostly - there's a pant leg of his jeans sticking out) and I finish it. I take another moment to breathe, trying my best to keep it together, and then I go back out. My food chimes, and I serve myself.

I sit on his right so I can enjoy the warmth of his hand, but today I keep my left in my lap. He sees it, and doesn't say anything, but obediently eats. But he watches me.

I do not want to look at him. But I also want so badly to touch him. To feel the warth that he carries with him, and takes with him when he leaves me. It is hard, when he's been so cold...

He stops, and puts his chopsticks down. He reaches over and finds my hand, his strong fingers squeezing mine. I look up from my food and look to him.

His eyes are warm, but unsure. They are asking a question, and they are afraid. It breaks my heart.

"Please, baby. I need to know that we're okay," he whispers, and he chews something he missed.

I set my chopsticks down and I sigh. "I do not know."

His face breaks, and he stands, shoving aside the chair, and he crashes down to his knees, and I am startled by the movement, and more so by him bowing before me when... that is usually me.

"Please..." His eyes are filled with tears. "Please. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you. Yer all I got right now, only reason I'm holdin' it together. Please." Tears stream down his face. "No one gets me like you do. No one ever will. I-I can't lose you."

...I can not say anything to that. His hands clutch mine, and he presses a fervent kiss to my knuckles, and it breaks my heart.

I sigh, moving my chair away from the table, and he wraps his arms around my waist, and begins to cry anew. I wrap my arm around his head, and I hug him close, running my fingers through his hair. I look to the guns, hanging by the door, and I think about his eyes, black and cold. And I think of mine own, staring out of the mirror. And I thought of how long those eyes haunted me... And how being with him has kept them from me for so long.

If he has done that for me... Perhaps I am doing it for him as well.

"I love you so damn much..." his muffled voice is saying. "Please don't leave me. I need you..."

I huff. _He is being a big baby_. And he's making this hard. It is hard to be sensible, to be afraid of a killer when he is also a big baby.

"You are a lug," I say only, and he lets out something that is a sob or a laugh, it is hard to tell with him. "A big crying lug. Big baby."

His head looks up at me, eyes glittering with tears. "Big baby, just for you. I swear."

I purse my lips at him. "You are a lot of work. You know that?"

He grins. "I sure am. But I fuck real good, don't I?"

I snort! "As if that makes up for it." But there is a smirk on my lips.

"Please don't leave me," he says again. "I don' think there's enough whiskey in the world to drown in, and I'll just follow you around like a lovesick puppy until you take me back."

"Then I will definitely shoot you," I say. And I make a little finger gun, and put it right at his nose, before I pull the trigger with a little noise.

He looks at my hand and then up at me. "Statistics of bein' shot and killed with yer own gun are pretty high, to be fair."

"That implies I will shoot to kill. Maybe I want you to suffer."

He chuckles, and my shy smile broadens.

...And then it thins. "You know, Ana told me once, that you must not carry the weight of the dead with you, or they will bury you." I purse my lips. "She said you were good at that. Apparently you are lying to her."

"She was comparing me to you," he answered, rising above me, hands on my knees. God, I missed his hands there. "To be fair, you are full on Batman with the brooding. I just drink in private."

"You do not live in private anymore," I chided, waving a finger. "No more! You have to put up with _me_."

He nodded, understanding. "...And you have to put up with me."

"Exactly. Right now, you are putting up with me telling you to EAT. I bet you have not had a real meal in two days, GO. That sushi is not the best for drinking."

His smile is shy, but he obeys, sniffling, and wipes away his tears. I stand and fetch more napkins, and wave one by his face so he doesn't use his ARM, since he has no sleeve.

"Silly cowboy. No shirt to wipe your face on. What will you do now?"

He took the napkins and wiped his face. I sat down again with a sigh, getting back to my food. "I swear. I have not had so many tears since Hana's last break up. Men are not supposed to cry so much!"

He sniffed and smiled at me. "You got some too."

"Hush!" I snapped my chopsticks at him. "Eat!" And at his food.

He ate, and he grinned at me. I tried to be disapproving, but damn it, he was so handsome with his grinning, and his hair demanded to have my fingers in it, and his chest was hairy and inviting... When we finished, he even helped pick up the dishes and put them in the sink.

"Leave them! I will do them in the morning." He obeyed, and I watched him watch me from the dark, his eyes like a beast hunting in the night.

...He was always a beast. And a killer. And a hunter. And so was I. It was why we worked.

"Come on, Gaijin. You have an apology to give me."

If I wanted him to forgive me, I would have to forgive him. And no one I had ever met was more forgiving than Jesse McCree. It was the least I could do for him, for giving me all he had given me. That did not make it easy. But then, did they not always say that it is not easy to make a relationship work? Maybe this is what they meant.

Jesse was eager to make up for the night. His arms were around me before we made it to the hall, and he purred in my ear as he undid my robe.

"I know you missed me," he said gently. "I know I sure as hell missed you."

"Oh?" I asked, as if not sure. But when his hand found my cock, my confidence waned. His strong and steady hands worked quick magick on me, and I leaned back into him.

"Ooh... Yeah. That's how I remember it." He licked at my earlobe, and I shivered, a hand moving back to his neck. "You _were_  waitin' for me, weren'cha?"

"I was," I complained. "And instead of coming to me you went to Jack." I pouted. "You make me jealous."

"I'm sorry, baby... I won't do that no more." He quickened his pace, and my back arched. "Ahh... Mm. You're more fun than Jack anyway."

"And your Jose?"

"Mm. Jose too." He let a dark chuckle in my ear. "God, that makes me sound gay, dunnit?"

"I should hope so," I answered, my voice turning husky. "Or this would be very confusing."

With another growl, he bit my neck, and I gasped. His grip stayed tight, his right hand stroking me, and the left holding me to him. I could feel his erection behind me... I squirmed a little, rubbing the softness of my butt on him.

He groaned. "You wicked thing..."

"You stopped me on the way to the bedroom," I answered. "Who is the wicked one?" There was another bite, and I groaned. "I just fed you, hungry beast."

He chuckled, low and throaty in my ear. "But I'm not hungry for food. I'm hungry for Hanzo..."

I loved hearing him say my name. I squirmed some more, my hands over his arms... One following him down. "Will you be gentle with me tonight, sama?"

"Mm. If that's what you want, baby." He gave a wet kiss to my throat, and I nod.

"Please... That would be good. That monster scared me."

His touch hesitated, and lengthened, long strokes... slow strokes. The other hand moved to hug me close, and he nuzzled me.

"I'll do what I can to make it up to you," he said, his voice thick. "It won't happen again."

"If it does, I shoot you. Will be fun to explain to the police."

He chuckled again, I could feel it in his chest. "I love you, ya crazy Jap."

"And I love you! You psycho cowboy. I have half a mind to tell Angela to put you in therapy."

He snickered behind me. "That prolly wouldn't be a bad idea."

"But it might turn into marriage counseling. I feel bad for that doctor."

His hand stopped stroking, and he just laughed into my shoulder.

"Jesus, Hanzo, I'm tryin' ta be romantic here."

I turned to him with a mischievous smile and closed my robe again. "And I am playing hard to get!"

I bolted for the bedroom, and he hollered behind me. We were still in a fit of giggles and lazy tickles when the sun rose, and by the time most of the regular world was at work, we were a joined union, groaning and naked, full of tender words and kisses and hands. When everyone else was at lunch, we were still in bed, limbs entangled, and making up for lost time.

From then on, whenever Jesse asked off for a couple days after he got home from a job, he called it 'medical leave'. Angela didn't buy it until we sat down with her with the confidentiality of doctor and patient, and explained that it was 'therapy' for his PTSD, with the alternative being alcoholism. Jack still called it horseshit, and Genji teased me about it, but we never had to fight for our homecoming holidays again.

**Author's Note:**

> And yes, that's based on something that really happened. But I was McCree, and Hanzo did NOT stick around. Probably way better off without me. Hanzo is in a unique position that he DOES understand what's going on here. And presumably therapy is actually got. To be fair, they're both mercenaries. It's kind of a unique situation.


End file.
